


Jailbreak

by Juul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Marijuana, Police, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juul/pseuds/Juul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets busted for having weed in his luggage. Sam tries to get him out of jail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jailbreak

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Jailbreak  
>  **Artist:** 2blueshoes  
>  Art can be found [Here](http://2blueshoes.livejournal.com/27977.html)  
>  **Author:** Juul  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** Mentions of recreational softdrug use  
>  **Word Count:** 3681  
>  **Beta:** adamsdreamthief  
>  **Notes** Written for the Wincest Reverse Big Bang. A great big thank you goes out to the mods for organizing this event!
> 
> I named this fic after the awesome song by _Thin Lizzy_. You should listen to it if you don’t know it!
> 
> Also, there’s a quote in here that I took from J.D Salinger’s beautiful book _Franny and Zooey_ As much as I wish I’d come up with it, it belongs to him.

[](http://s1282.photobucket.com/user/ssmudge/media/jailbreak-1%20500_zpsosdy2ngd.jpg.html)

When the cops bust in, all they saw where two shirtless teenaged boys lounging on a bed. Later, Sam reflected that it could have been a lot worse. Just a few more minutes, and he’d have been found in a very compromising position, and Dean would probably have been charged with sexually assaulting a minor or something like that. As it was, one of the cops simply said:

“Well, good evening gentlemen. Can we have a look at your belongings, please?”

The fattest of the two cops eyed them suspiciously, as if he knew exactly what they had been doing and disapproved of such shenanigans.

Dean shot him an easy grin and said: “Evening, officers, sure thing!”

At least neither of them had been drinking.

Dean got up, tugged at his sweatpants to hide his hard-on and opened his duffel. There was nothing to be gained from being uncooperative, but Sam still felt like protesting. There was no warrant, so why should they allow anyone to look at their private possessions?  
However, Dean had already opened his duffel before Sam could protest. There were clothes in there, and a couple of paperbacks and a box of condoms. The cops weren’t so easily deterred, though. They dug deeper and deeper and eventually, they found a single gun. Still not a problem, they were in Alabama and they had the proper paperwork. The rest of the weapons were in the Impala with Dad. The very last thing to be revealed from Dean’s bag was their undoing: it was a small translucent bag of marihuana. Sam’s stomach dropped.

“Look what we have here! This your bag?”

The thinner cop, a gaunt older man with grayish blond hair and a sour look on his face, didn’t look like he was going to cut them any slack. But Dean wouldn’t be Dean if he didn’t try to charm the pants of everyone he met.

“Well, gee, officer, I’m very sorry. I’m afraid that _is_ my bag” His green eyes were big and innocent and gorgeous, but the skinny cop just snorted and raised his eyebrows.

“Do you guys have ID’s, then?”

Dean’s grin broadened and he pulled out an ID that read: “Dean Prince, January 24th, 1979, Memphis, Tennessee.” The fat cop looked it over briefly and did not seem suspicious.

“You got yours, Sammy?”

Taking the hint, Sam scrambled off the bed and grabbed the first ID he could find, one that read “Samuel Campbell, May 2nd, 1983, Memphis, Tennessee.” Neither of the cops bothered to look at it.

“Well, sweet cheeks,” said the thinner cop, giving Sam a quick once over, “we ain’t arrestin’ you cos your boyfriend’s a moron. Go on, get home to your momma.”

Dean growled at this, but he was being restrained by the fatter cop, and slowly pulled towards the door. Sam followed them out, not sure what to do or say. He felt panic rising in his throat. They were way out in the middle of nowhere in bumfuck Alabama, Dad would be gone with the car for at least another two weeks, and Dean was about to be taken in for questioning. Who knew what other incriminating stuff they’d find once they started going through all of their possessions?

“Wait!” Sam shouted.

The fat cop just kept on maneuvering Dean towards his police car, but the thin one stopped and looked at Sam again.

“What?”

“You don’t have a warrant,” Sam managed.

“Nope, we sure don’t.” The cop fucking _winked_ then, and Sam felt a shiver of revulsion go through him.

“At least let me get him a shirt?” Sam tried.

But that’s when Dean lost his cool. He twisted his wrists, so as to get out of fat cop’s grasp and yelled: “You fuckers leave my Sammy alone!”

Almost before he was finished speaking, the fat cop was tackling Dean to the ground. Sam winced as he saw Dean’s naked chest make contact with the asphalt. Thin cop was watching too, and his eyes were narrowed and cruel.

“Oh no,” he said, looking at Sam gleefully “I don’t think your boyfriend needs a shirt.”

***********************************************************************************

Sam watched the police car pull out of the motel parking lot and had to suppress the urge to run after it. Even with Dad’s extensive training, there was no way he could keep up with a moving car for more than a few minutes, and he had no idea how far the nearest police station was.

He went back inside and heard Dean’s voice in his head, clear and deep and steady. “Three minutes, Sammy, give yourself three minutes.” Dean had said those exact words so many times that Sam would never be able to forget them. If you were in an emergency, if you were panicking, if you were hurt, it was Dean’s belief that you should allow yourself three minutes to freak out. No more, no less. After that, cold hard Winchester logic should rule once more, but you would feel at least a semblance of relief.

Sam looked at the clock. 11:43.

He was alone. He was all alone in this motel room in Mooresville, Alabama, and Dean had been taken in by the police. They’d confiscated the guns and all of the ID’s and other papers and most of the rock salt and Dad’s fucking Journal had been in Dean’s duffel, too. Sam had enough money to pay for another two nights in the motel, provided he switch to a smaller room, but after that he’d be on the street, and Dad and the car weren’t going to be back for a while. The money certainly wouldn’t be enough to bail Dean out.

The clock struck 11:46. Sam inhaled deeply through his nose and let a big breath out through his open mouth. It was time to formulate a plan. A quick Google search revealed that the nearest police station was two miles away, which was only a short run for a young, able-bodied Winchester boy. He already had a pretty good idea what to do when he got there.

The highway was damp and slippery with rain, and Sam wished his shoes were just a little less worn. The route was easy, run straight on for a mile and a half then take a left on the edge of the park and from there on out there were road signs indicating the police station. He got there in record time, his shirt clinging to his sweaty body and his toes sore from running in a pair of old trainers.

“Hello?”

The entrance to the station was bleak and deserted. A clock above a cluttered bulletin board told Sam it was just after midnight. The lights were on but there was no one behind the desk. That ruled out plan number one. Sam tried to quiet his breathing, so he could hear the voices coming from the backroom.

He could make out the scraping noise of a chair on linoleum, and the unpleasant, nasal voice of one of the policemen. He didn’t hear Dean. Once the stitch in his side had disappeared, Sam straightened up and was eye to eye with a shiny red handle on the wall: the fire alarm. Without thinking, he pulled it and ran.

Sam crouched down in a bush near the parking lot. He could hear the officers curse through the open window, and then he saw their shadows appear in the light of the street lamp. They’d followed at least part of the protocol; they’d exited the building and they were waiting for the fire brigade. However, Dean was nowhere in sight. The assholes hadn’t brought him out with them.

“How much you wanna bet that that little twink just pulled the alarm to free his boyfriend?” thin cop asked. His partner didn’t reply.

Sam used some of his newly acquired height to reach the windowsill and pulled himself up by his forearms. Knees pushed against the wall to keep himself upright, he could just make out the top of Dean’s head through the window.

“Dean!” His voice had the volume of a whisper and the urgency of a scream. It had the desired effect; Dean bolted upright and turned towards the window. When he saw the top of Sam’s head, he sighed.

“Damn it. You set off the fire alarm, Sam?”

Sam’s arms were getting tired from holding himself up, but he managed to croak out a weak “yeah.” Then, after a second of silence. “Dean, gimme a hand?”

“What? So we’re both locked in here? I don’t think so. Please go back to the room, Sam, I’ll manage.”

“No, Dean,” Sam was embarrassed to hear his voice break. His arms were burning with the strain, and the prospect of returning to an empty motel room while Dean was stuck in jail made him overwhelmingly sad.

“Please, Sam? Just go to school tomorrow, okay? I can already hear the fire truck coming.”

Sam strained his ears. Dean was right. Fuck. Pulling a false fire alarm was likely to get him a big fine. He ran the whole way back to the motel, his sneakers squeaking on the asphalt. He tried to ignore the tears streaming down his face.

****************************************************************************************

Sam could never disobey Dean, and they both knew it. Sam had no problem defying Dad these days; he’d been doing it more and more often, lately. With Dean, though, it was different. Sam knew Dean always had good reasons to ask something of him. He trusted Dean with everything he had. So the next morning, after only a few hours of fitful, tear-streaked sleep, Sam walked the three and a half miles to the local high school.

Homeroom was hell. History was torture. Home ec was its own special kind of punishment, and he skipped phys ed because his legs were sore from running. Unfortunately, his absence at the gym was noted almost immediately and Sam was hauled back inside the building to talk to a guidance counselor.

Her office was small and cramped and a little smelly. There was a bulletin board decorated with so many brightly colored pamphlets that it made his head hurt. A lime green flyer promised “Advice and Support for Incest Survivors.” Sam felt sick to his stomach.

The guidance counselor was a young woman with dyed blond hair and way too many bracelets on her wrists. She tapped her pen on her desk and looked at Sam. The name board on her desk said: “Stacey Waterston.” Sam looked at the floor.

Eventually, Stacey asked: “Is there anything in particular you want to discuss today, Samuel?”

“It’s Sam,” he replied automatically. “And no, I’m fine.” He met her eyes now, trying to make the lie look convincing. 

“Okay, Sam,” she clearly didn’t believe him. 

There was another beat of silence.

She was smiling gently, and using his name a lot to create the illusion of familiarity. Those were tricks he’d seen Dad use on victims and witnesses thousands of times. Still, he tried to make his body relax in the chair, and forced a smile.

“So, Sam, why did you feel the need to skip class today?”

Stick as close to the truth as possible. “I already went on a jog this morning, and my muscles were sore.”

No big deal. No big deal. Nothing to see here, Stacey, move right along.

“Okay, Sam. In future, I think it would be best if you discussed this with Coach Carr at the start of the class.”

Sam nodded.

“So, Sam, I can see on your transcript that you’ve moved quite a bit in the last few years. What do your parents do?”

“My mom’s dead,” he had now turned his gaze to the ceiling. “My dad’s in the army.”

“Okay.” 

Shit. She was worried. “Not right now, though,” Sam added quickly. “He took an extended break so we can finish up the year here.” Look her in the eye when you lie, Winchester.

“Oh?” She didn’t believe him.

“Yeah. It’s because my brother’s found a steady job.”

Lying about Dean was always easier. He’d had loads of practice lying to Dad about Dean. He could say “we were just fighting,” or: “I’m really tired,” or: “we can share a room, dad, don’t waste your money,” or: “Dean was out with a waitress last night,” without arousing any suspicion.

So this time his expression became fond and relaxed when he said: “He’s working at the auto repair shop over on Main Street. He’s a fully qualified mechanic.”

A proud grin to top it all off and she was convinced, smiled at him indulgently and offered him a lollypop.

“That’s great, Sam. Now, why don’t you head on home? I won’t tell Coach Carr if you don’t.” And then she winked at him. Sam was getting pretty sick of people winking at him.

Lightning fast he was out the door, heading towards the police station again.

****************************************************************************************

It was three thirty when Sam arrived. This time there was a secretary behind the counter. She was pretty, in an inconspicuous way. Her hair was dark and she wore horn-rimmed glasses and she had a copy of _Franny and Zooey_ open in her lap. Sam grinned. He couldn’t have imagined a better victim.

“Hey,” he began, making sure to keep his voice soft and shy, to keep his posture slouched and to only look at her through a curtain of disheveled hair.

“Hello,” she blushed. She didn’t address him as “sir,” or anything like that. It was like taking candy from a baby. “What can I do for you?”

“That’s a great book you’re reading,” he said, gesturing towards _Franny and Zooey._ Then he brushed the hair out of his face with one hand, looked her dead in the eye and said: “I don't know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn't make you happy.”

She turned bright crimson and stuttered: “What’s your name?”

“Samuel,” he smiled just enough to show a hint of white teeth. “Call me Sam.”

“My name is Zoey.”

This time Sam’s laugh was completely genuine. 

“What can I do for you today, Sam?”

“Well, Zoey,” he lowered his voice and leaned in close enough to see that she had a smattering of freckles on her face, “I’m in a bit of a fix.”

Her brow furrowed adorably. “What’s the matter?”

“Well, you see…” he shuffled his feet, looked at the floor then back at her. “God, I’m sorry, but you have really pretty eyes.”

Her mouth opened a little. “Thank you,” she breathed.

“It’s my brother, see,” he continued. “The cops took him in last night because he had some pot on him, but I really need to talk to him, Zoey.”

She looked pained. “I can’t let you in. I just _couldn’t._ They’d fire me if I did.”

“I understand,” he turned his smile sad now, his eyes big and bright. “Only…”

“Only what?” 

He leaned in a bit closer, close enough that his breath was on her cheek, and whispered as though divulging a secret: “It’s his birthday, Zoey.”

“Ooh,” she exclaimed. There was a small silence, then: “How about I take you into the office for a cup of coffee and a doughnut? We might just run into your brother.”

He gave her his best dazzling smile and bounced on the balls of his feet.

That’s when thin cop came out of his office. He took one look at Sam, turned bright red and started yelling. 

“You again! Hey Paul, come out here a second, it’s that pain in the ass kid again!” He stepped around the counter to get closer to Sam, who was trying to back away. “Did you pull the fire alarm last night, kid? Did you?” He spat in Sam’s face a little as he talked.

With an apologetic smile to Zoey, Sam ran out of the station as fast as his feet could carry him, book bag still slung over one shoulder. So much for Plan B.

****************************************************************************************

Sam’s throat felt tight as he entered the deserted motel room. Only one side of the bed had been slept in. There was only one duffel on the dresser. Worst of all, the room didn’t feel lived in. Sam couldn’t tell that Dean had ever set foot in here. He was close to tears.

There was one last plan Sam had to try before he’d allow himself to wallow in his misery. Dean would yell at him, otherwise, for not exhausting all of his options. Of course, Dean would yell at him just as much if Sam implemented this plan, but at least it increased the chances of Dean being free enough to yell at Sam.

There was a convenience store over on Main Street. Dark blue hoodie obscuring half his face, Sam started ambling towards it. In his left back pocket was a small handgun. The store wasn’t exactly big. A town like Mooresville didn’t really need a big store, anyway. Only a handful of people lived here.

A little bell chimed when Sam shouldered the door open. He had pulled the left side of his hood further down to hide his face from the security camera.

“Hey, kid,” the guy behind the counter was barely older than Dean. Tall and blond and plagued by zits. 

For a moment, Sam felt bad. Then, he pulled the gun out of his pocket and said, in as low a voice as he could manage: “This is a robbery. Go ahead and call the cops now.”

The guy looked at him incredulously, eyes big as saucers. “Excuse me? You _want_ me to call the cops?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “And tell them to bring backup, as well. If you do, I won’t hurt you.”

The guy rolled his eyes, muttered something about lame-ass criminals which Sam thought was pretty cheeky from a guy with a gun to his head, and started dialing the police station. As soon as the call had ended, Sam was out the door. He ran and ran and ran faster than he ever had before, stopping only to wipe down the gun and throw it in a dumpster.

When he got to the station, there were no cars in the lot. His plan had worked; thin cop and fat cop were heading towards Main Street. That left Sam with only Zoey to deal with. He ran inside, shaky with adrenalin and completely out of breath. Zoey took in his appearance with a look of alarm and said: “You okay, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he wheezed. “Would like to see my brother now.”

“I’m not sure if…” Zoey began, but Sam had already dashed around her behind the counter and headed to the north side of the small building. The room he’d seen Dean in last night had been on the north side. Of course, the door was locked, but Sam was a Winchester. He opened it with a paperclip in seconds.

“Sammy!” Dean’s voice was surprised and hoarse. He rattled the cuffs that tied him to a desk and Sam understood, started picking the lock with the paperclip.

“You okay?” they asked simultaneously. Then laughter echoed through the small room.

“Yeah,” Sam said, “provided these cuffs budge sometime soon.”

“I’m okay, Sammy,” Dean assured him. “I knew you’d come for me. You always do.”

Sam gave a triumphant little yelp as the left cuff sprang loose, and Dean yanked himself away from the desk. As soon as he was upright, he leaned down to kiss Sam hastily on the mouth. It was wet and a little rushed and Sam thought he might cry, because Dean was _here, _Dean was back in his arms again, and as long as they were together they would be fine.__

__“So where are the cops at?”_ _

__Sam didn’t meet his gaze. “Investigating an armed robbery in the Main Street convenience store.”_ _

__To Sam’s immense relief, Dean only laughed, ruffled Sam’s hair and said: “That’s my boy. Dad’s Journal is in the top drawer of the desk on the left of the bullpen.”_ _

__Of course Dean would have noticed something like that. Sam was glad to find the drawer unlocked, as he was sure the cops were on their way back by now. He grabbed everything that belonged to Dean in there: the journal, his amulet and his ring; even the small bag of weed that had gotten them into this mess._ _

__As the Winchester brothers bolted out of the police station together, Sam waved at Zoey. They ran to the motel, faster than Sam had done on his own because now he had someone to beat, and got all of Sam’s stuff._ _

__Then, at a more leisurely pace, they walked to the next town over. They’d had enough of Mooresville for a lifetime._ _

__“How’d they know about the weed?” Sam asked._ _

__“Because I’m an idiot,” Dean said._ _

__“Aren’t you always?”_ _

__Dean rolled his eyes at that. “When I booked the room, a bunch of stuff fell out of my bag, remember? The motel manager called in the weed.”_ _

__“Asshole,” said Sam._ _

__Dean just shrugged. And then, after a kiss that made Sam’s lips tingle:“Hey Sammy, d’you know what shotgunning is?”_ _

[](http://s1282.photobucket.com/user/ssmudge/media/motels_%20latest%20500_zpstfmxx2xn.jpg.html)


End file.
